A name...?

Subject: A name...? Tue Feb 03, 2009 5:37 pm

Season: Autumn
Afternoon
(19 September 1777)

She didn't like war. She truly hated it. Whimpering, she crouched down, hiding herself in the golden wheat. The mixed men were fighting the red and green men again, but this time, she hadn't been able to escape the battlefield in time. At the sound of musket-fire, she flinched and crawled back a few feet. She wished that she could just just and run, but she knew that would only scare the humans into shooting at her. So she just flattened herself against the ground, covering her snout with her paws.

That was when he came. One of the mixed me - patriots, they called themselves - he was injured and pulled himself along the ground, a hand pressed to the bullet wound in his side. he was less than a foot away when an involuntary whine escaped her throat. he stopped dead and met her eyes, but reacted to the fear he must have seen there instead of his own. "Hey there," he whispered, managing a smile. "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"

His bravado calmed her for a moment before the thundering roar of cannons nearly scared her out of her fur again. In a flash, he had his hand on her muzzle, stroking her soothingly. "War's a scary thing, isn't it, girl?" he was crooning. "You don't have to worry. Garrett'll keep you safe." His name was Garrett. "I wish I knew your name, too," he said, probably soft enough that he thought she wouldn't hear. But she did, and the thought was disturbing. Wolves name each other based on characteristics and personality, but she had never had a pack let alone a name. She was nobody.

She stopped shaking after a few minutes, and Garrett rolled over onto his back in front of her. "I oughta shoot the damned sonuvagun that invented rifles." He laughed, but she could tell that he was in serious pain. Blood spurted from between his fingers with each breath.

Slowly, gently, she nudged his hand away from the wound before laying her forepaw over it. Gravity applied all the pressure needed for the pad to create a seal, and Garrett smiled gratefully and offered his own comfort. "The battle won't last much longer. General Arnold's arrived. He'll send those lobsterbacks running."

At this he fell silent, and the two of them simply lay in the field, Garrett looking up at the sky and she looking at Garrett. His long hair, pulled back in the popular style, was the same gold as her fur, as the grain that swayed gently around them. his eyes were a beautiful dark green not unlike the needles of a pine on a stormy day. It was his size that intrigued her the most, though. She could tell that he was large for a human, but he was so small compared to her. Her forepaw alone was half the size of his entire torso, and it occurred to her that her paw must be rather heavy. But he was stroking it absently with a hand only a bit larger than one of her claws, his face decidedly less pained now that he was no longer bleeding to death.

"Back at camp," Garrett said suddenly, recalling her from her thoughts, "we have a few Hessian prisoners."

Hessians? she thought. No, these men aren't from Hesse. Brunswick, maybe.

"They were telling us some of their folklore the other night." Garrett spoke slowly, as if confirming of acknowledging some revelation. "One story was of these beautiful women - Valkyries - who rode down to battles from heaven on horses and wolves and ravens."

She translated the term in her head. Walkuren. I haven't heard these stories in years.

"The Valkyries would take fallen warriors to heaven and protect the soldiers whose time hadn't yet come." He turned his head to her and grinned. "I think I'll be putting a lot more store in those stories after today."

A bird sang somewhere, and she and Garrett realized for the first time that the battle had ended. The sun was setting, as well, casting a rosy light over the tall wheat. "I should be heading back to camp," Garrett said softly. Hesitantly, she lifted her paw, but his bleeding had just about stopped. "Thank you," he said, standing. "I don't think I said it before."

She stood, too, and Garrett chuckled. "Wolves as big as horses. Lord, I love this country."

"Maybe, but does the bitch taste as good as you will?"

She whipped around and found herself looking at two young, pale skinned men. The last rays of sunlight cast a red glow in their coal black eyes. They smelled like ice. "I don't know who you are, but back off," Garrett snarled.

"Cute," one of them sneered before flinging himself on Garrett. She turned to help her friend, but the other creature grabbed her neck, throwing her to the ground with impossible strength. Desperately she bit at him, but to her surprise, his granite skin tore like parchment beneath her teeth. He screamed and tried to scramble away, but she was on him in a flash, tearing him limb from limb and scattering the pieces. Not even fully conscious of what she was doing, she rounded on the other and disposed of him as well.

But Garrett was hurt, a gaping bite wound where his neck met his shoulder. The scent of the venom in the flesh was cold enough to numb her nose, but she nudged at Garrett, whimpering. Biting back a groan, he opened his eyes - they were clouding over with red - and smiled. "My Valkyrie, protecting this soldier before his time." He screamed, a terrible, agonized sound, and she couldn't help but step back. Still with the bravado, Garrett gasped between cries, "You can go... You don't want to see this..."

What she did next would haunt her for years. She turned and ran with her tail between her legs, Garrett's heartbreaking screams ringing in her ears. Her friend was dying, and she was leaving him. But she would never forget Garrett. She would carry a piece of him with her always. Because he had done what nothing else had done yet. He had given her a name.

Walkure.